A singular line of inquiry
by katachresis
Summary: Dating, it seemed achieved the impossible: simultaneously a very dull and very risky endeavor.  Sherlock had no taste for it.  light slash
1. Chapter 1

This will be two, possibly three parts. A somewhat-sappy ficlet that was born out of snarky dialogue… as usual. Hope you enjoy!

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The under-eye circles only left by being dragged out of bed in the wee hours of the morning didn't do much for anyone. It certainly didn't do much for either John Watson or Sherlock Holmes, standing on either side of a young woman, splayed out in the grass of a park. Her reddish-brown hair was tangled beyond belief, skirt worked up around her hips – violent bruises on her throat. Her eyes had been closed by someone. Anderson, likely. He may present as a cold fish, but he had a sentimental streak. Sometimes John thought that might have been a good part of the problem between Anderson and Sherlock – both of them cared, under it all, but would die before they'd show it.

Sherlock's rambling broke into John's fogged consideration of the body. "It just doesn't make any bloody sense why she would have followed him here of all places. It was a blind date. A perfect stranger! And it isn't as if the media wasn't all over the _last _killing." Sherlock waved an annoyed hand. "Women have no sense of self-preservation nowadays, _honestly_."

"That's a bit harsh."

"Howso?"

"Well it's not like dating is generally particularly _risky_." He rubbed an eye, irritably. Coffee. Lots of coffee. And some sort of pastry. He'd give up quite a bit for both those things right now.

"Nor is it particularly interesting, so why bother taking the risk at all? Especially with someone you don't even know. Asinine"

"It is no—look, have you ever even _been_ on a date?" John asked, his voice strained with irritated disbelief.

"They're banal. Really, how long can you make small talk?"

"That doesn't answer the question."

"Yes of course I have."

"When?"

"You should know, you were there."

"Wh…" John trailed off, his utter bewilderment giving way to exasperation. "Sherlock, that was _my _date. The one you crashed."

"Yes, and it was utterly dull." Sherlock paused, mulling it over for a half a breath. "That is until the attempted murder. That part was more interesting. Really spiced up the evening, wouldn't you say?"

John pinched the bridge of his nose and reminded himself that he had signed up for this. "Only you would see that as spicing it up. Most of us would think that rather killed the mood. Very few dates involve murder or mayhem, Sherlock."

"Actually, you'd be surprised at the amount that _do_."

"That's not the _point_, Sherlock!" He groaned a little. "Every date _is _a risk. You don't know what will happen in the end. People risk it because the reward is…" He trailed off, letting out a slow breath and biting back the rest of it. Sherlock wouldn't understand. He never did. "Never mind. Are we done here?"

Sherlock hummed under his breath faintly, looking once more at the body at their feet. "Here? Yes." Distractedly, he handed John's phone back to him, commandeered earlier because Sherlock's had been acting up. "Phone Rossini's and make a reservation for two. Back left corner table. Ask for candles."

John blinked. It wasn't unusual for them to retrace a victim's steps, but... "I'm sorry, a reservation?"

"Seven o'clock will do. I trust you have a nice suit jacket." He waved a hand distractedly, turning to leave.

"For what?"

"Science!" Sherlock tossed over his shoulder.

John snapped his teeth shut, afraid that he'd either gape or snarl at his flatmate's retreating back. It was only after Sherlock was quite out of shouting distance that the whole thing sunk in.

Sherlock had just invited him on a date. For research. And John really didn't know _what _to make of that.

He straightened a cuff with a kind of military precision that he hadn't bothered with – well, since he'd been discharged.

This was it, though. This was the war again, the campaign. He glared at himself in the mirror – getting all the glare out, as it were. He _would _turn the tables on Sherlock tonight, if he killed himself doing it.

Perhaps this wasn't the best way to go into it, but then again, this was Sherlock Holmes. "Date" didn't cover it. It would be like calling a swim through shark-infested waters a dip in the pool. Extreme dating.

He ran knuckles over his grimly-set jaw, re-checking the stubble there for the third time since he'd dressed and the seventh since he'd finished shaving. Smooth, check. Most flattering outfit (light blue tshirt, dark blue jeans, black suit jacket), check. Light touch of cologne (very light, Sherlock was always sensitive about smells, though he _did _comment once when John was going out that it wasn't horrible on him), check. Battle plan – working on it.

Bloody hell, he was about to make a fool out of himself, wasn't he? He grimaced lightly, looked himself over once more – though really, he knew that this was as good as he was going to get – and stepped out of the bathroom, flipping off the light.

His flatmate was waiting in the living room downstairs, standing by the fire. Silhouetted, almost, and the light almost made him thinner, more ethereal. He could be some sort of spirit but for the cell in his hands, fingers flying over the keys. Or at least they were until Sherlock glanced up once, quickly, and then again more slowly. His eyebrows slid up, slowly. "Taking this rather seriously, aren't you John?"

"Speak for yourself." He said, shoving his irritation back, hard. It wasn't as if Sherlock hadn't changed too – fine white shirt, black jacket. A different cut than he normally wore. John couldn't remember if he'd ever seen that jacket before, but then again, he rarely remembered details like that. "Besides, who am I to deny science?"

"Quite so. Have you called a cab, then?"

"It's waiting outside." And John said a quick, silent prayer of thanks that he'd thought of that detail.

"Oh." And now Sherlock was actually _looking _at him, with a faintly perplexed light in his eyes that John couldn't remember seeing ever before. It warmed him up better than a pint on a cold day, gave him courage to see the rest of this through. He picked up Sherlock's scarf from where it had been laying haphazardly across the back of a chair, and stepped into the other, just a hair too close, where he knew that he was ever-so-subtly violating Sherlock's personal space, and quite casually looped it around his throat, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Let's not be late for our table. Science would be _most _disappointed." He said lightly, as if he hadn't noticed the way Sherlock's light eyes sharpened, honed in on him as if they'd just seen something entirely new. Score one, Watson.

The cab ride to the restaurant was short – and mostly silent. John held the door for Sherlock, and insisted on paying, instead of being bullied into it. He didn't pull out Sherlock's chair, but he did order for them both. Sometimes he thought he knew more about Sherlock's taste in food than the man himself did.

Not too far from their usual MO, he supposed, but it was at the same time. It was enough to keep Sherlock's mouth just-so-slightly pursed.

And then, of course, there was the eye contact. Instead of looking around the restaurant, or reading over the dessert menu or searching out a loose thread to tug at, he was simply watching Sherlock. It was a trick he'd picked up at some point or another, from a friend in the army who swore that it worked every time. He'd never really employed it before, but if Sherlock had to turn everything into an experiment; John saw no reason not to try one out on _him_.

"Why are you staring at me?" The other asked, almost immediately after the wine had been poured.

"Is that what I'm doing?" John asked – murmured, almost – and kept right on doing it. Eyes focused on Sherlock's, even as he sipped the wine. He honestly wouldn't be able to say later if it was a good vintage or not. That didn't matter, at this point. All that did was maintaining that eye contact.

"Of course it is." Sherlock said, shifting some, a faint wrinkle between his eyebrows. But he didn't break the gaze, not entirely anyway. Score two, Watson.

"Mn." He shrugged a little, a roll of his shoulders… and broke the gaze for a moment, to take a breath. What the hell _was _he doing? Seducing his likely-asexual flatmate to prove a point? Did he even want to seduce Sherlock?

Yes. No. Maybe. He honestly didn't know. Sherlock had this way of taking his world and shaking it upside down like a snow globe, all the bits and pieces falling into a new and unrecognizable pattern. Since they'd met, he had to constantly re-evaluate who he was. Everything seemed changed – or maybe just thrown into hyper-relief.

Maybe he just wanted to see that he had – even to the smallest degree – the same effect on him. Thoughts of seduction and sex were jumping the gun, by miles. He raised his wineglass to his lips again, and took another, cautious drink. As a rule, he didn't like to drink anyway, but right now losing control of his already-fragmented emotions could be a disaster.

Bloody hell, he was turning _into _Sherlock if he was doing this all to prove a point, he thought sourly. It must have shown up on his face because before the thought even completed himself, it was interrupted by an almost-amused, "What are you thinking about?"

"The liver you've got under the sink." He said dryly, knowing that Sherlock won't be sure if it's a lie or not. He inhales slowly under the dubious look he receives, squaring his shoulders just a little – not too much, not enough to look like he's standing at attention.

If Sherlock knows he's lying, he does John the solid of not calling him on it. Gulping a mouthful of the wine instead, and that itself seemed odd, incongruous. Sherlock didn't like things that dulled his wit.

He wasn't sure how the small talk started. He'd probably asked Sherlock something inane… but somehow, oddly, Sherlock didn't find it to be so, and they'd started _talking_. They'd asked each other all those little questions that had slipped through the cracks of cases and exhaustion and haranguing Sherlock about his odd habits and being harangued over his own.

It flowed, surprisingly well, in a way that all the dates he'd had since he'd returned from Afghanistan hadn't. Perhaps it was because he wasn't looking forward to tonight, to a bed and warm skin and the press of bodies. He was just enjoying himself-with-someone-else. The frenetic intensity of cases with Sherlock dampened, muted. No, not muted, concentrated. He barely tasted the food, the richness of the conversation itself feeling like it could sustain him. Was this how Sherlock felt while on a particularly good case? No wonder he didn't eat. Eating _was _boring.

Their plates were cleared, check paid. (John paid, and ignored the twist in his stomach when he tucked his card into the book without even looking at the check. He had enough to cover it, whatever it was, and he _wouldn't _regret it.) Wineglasses emptied, and were refilled. They drank slowly – John still cautious, never more than just enough to feel warm to his fingertips and toes. Sherlock less cautiously, though John would never accuse him of getting drunk. A single bottle of wine never hurt two grown men. The candle guttered out between them before John realized, and he glanced down, smiling at it.

"They're probably getting sick of us, yeah?" He said lowly, nodding his head over towards the servers. Noting how Sherlock's lips pursed in exasperation.

"I suppose. Home, then?" Sherlock isn't even waiting for John to agree, standing and reaching for his coat, slipping it on and popping the collar. Such a silly, vain, dear habit. John can't help the smile that he tries to bite back as he stands, and hands Sherlock his scarf again.

They step out into the street, bells on the door jangling as it bangs shut. It's a cold night, hints of frost clinging to the air. John should have dressed more warmly, a shiver working down his spine as he gets used to it. The cold never used to bother him, until the pressing heat of Afghanistan.

The backs of their hands brushed as they walked; accidentally, of course. John hadn't meant for the awkward knock between them, hadn't planned on Sherlock looking at him askance. "Are you trying to hold my hand?" He almost laughed at the absurdity of the question and couldn't help the smile that broke out on his lips. He held his hand up, in a silent challenge, daring Sherlock to take it.

A brief hesitation before fine Italian glove slid over his bare palm and their hands were falling between them, a heavy weight that held them in orbit.

"People usually do this without gloves you know." He couldn't help but needle the other lightly, still able to feel that mad grin still his face.

"Vile." Sherlock responded lightly, but he didn't drop John's hand. Score three.

They turned towards home as they walked, John's breath catching just a little when Sherlock took a wrong turn. Sherlock _never _took a wrong turn. The knowledge set him dizzy, and if he weren't already grinning like a loon… he looked over and up at Sherlock, whose eyes were bright in the low street lights. Was that a faint flush, or just the orange of the light? He didn't know. He was afraid he was blushing too – or maybe that was just the frost. Would Sherlock be able to tell the difference? Feel the too-fast heartbeat in his palm, through those ridiculously soft leather gloves?

Was that even his own heartbeat?

Bloody sentimental nonsense. He cut himself off, pulled up shortly. The door of the flat was there, just a block away, and he couldn't afford to knock himself arse over teakettle. No matter what he might feel _now_, in the light of home he was still plain old ordinary John, who was somehow fortunate enough to be let into the strange, twisted wonderful _life _that was Sherlock. He wouldn't lose that. Especially not to prove a point.

An experiment, that was all this was. Liver under the sink, maggots in the icebox. He let out a slow breath as they reached the door of the flat, letting Sherlock's hand go to unlock the door. Smooth, no hint of fiddling on the keys. His hands as steady as they were holding a gun.

They stepped in, the silence that descended suddenly _awkward_, unlike the contemplative, wonderful lulls that had punctuated their conversation up until this point. Stairs creaked under their feet, John flipping on the light of the living room as they reached it. The fire had died out at some point, he noted, absently.

"Well. It was an early morning, so…" John started, keeping his face pleasantly neutral. It just wouldn't do to show the sudden nervous shyness.

Sherlock, blessedly, seemed not to notice. Fingers loosening his scarf. He was still next to John, too close. He let himself swallow once against the tension wrapping his throat, starting up the stairs towards his room.

"_John_." Sherlock's voice came out somewhat twisted, strangled before John was more than two steps up towards his room. He kept from smiling – just barely – before he turned back to Sherlock.

"Yes?" Nonchalant. Well not completely, but as much as he could be, and he knew Sherlock noticed the tremor in his voice, but also that his flatmate hadn't quite identified it.

"I… believe I understand." Sherlock grit out, slowly. "Thank you. The results should be most helpful in.."

John was back down a step, his hand on that soft blue scarf that he'd wrapped around Sherlock's throat earlier before he knew it, and before he could even think about what he was doing, his mouth cut off Sherlock's. Impulsive, he knew, from the moment that Sherlock's lips moved against his, awkwardly, not sure if he was still speaking or kissing. And bloody hell he wanted to press forward into it more, and _show _Sherlock what he was missing. But he didn't. Pulling back, he met Sherlock's eyes – wide open and so, _so _pale in the odd light in the hallway.

"Good night kiss." He said, his voice not at all as light as he would have liked it. "Not a proper date without it."

Sherlock's inhale was audible, and the way the angular planes of his face evened out with the surprise just _fascinating_, but that odd awkward twist was back in his stomach and he _couldn't _keep standing there, staring. He did the only thing a _sane _person could do (oh god, sane and living with Sherlock Holmes, that was obviously a contradiction of the most glaring proportions…) and turned to take the stairs again, deliberately not taking them as fast as his feet wanted.

John closed the door behind him with a soft sound and leaned back against it, letting out a long shaky breath. Scrubbed his hands over his face with a soft groan. He couldn't be sure if he'd dodged a bullet or walked into a firing squad.

He dug his keys out of his pocket, haphazardly tossed them on the nightstand.. then his wallet, and then his phone. Bloody thing.

Almost on cue, it buzzed, LED light flashing. John growled, pulling off the suit jacket, hanging it up though he _wanted _to just throw it across the chair (but no, too many years of military instincts kept him from doing that) before he sat down on the edge of the bed, picking up the phone and checking the text.

_:Further investigation required. Keep Friday evening open. SH_:


	2. Chapter 2

Many, many thanks to my cheerleader (and nominal beta) Mitsu. Any mistakes are mine, not hers, as I tended to shove pieces of this at her through aim like cake through a mailslot. 3

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It wasn't that any particular part of the evening had been shocking. Nothing unexpected, nothing innovative. Dinner was the most typically dull of date settings. John never had been the sort to go out of his way to prove himself different from the rest.

Sherlock wasn't sure how he managed to be different. He just was. Infuratingly, maddeningly different.

John had barely touched his food. For once, Sherlock had made a better stab at it. It was good enough, Sherlock supposed (proper balance of nutrients, good for at least two days, three if he didn't do anything too strenuous in the interim).

Two days until Friday. Two days should be ample time to find a killer and plan his rebuttal to John's argument, as persuasive as it had been.

Rebuttal? Argument? He was quite sure John wouldn't appreciate him thinking in those terms.

It was simply that for the first time in – ever, if memory served him – (and to be honest some memories were fuzzier than others. Mycroft would call it his misspent youth. Sherlock would call it a perfectly rational response to boredom) that he had truly _enjoyed _himself while not on a case.

But of course that didn't mean that dating, love, all that extraneous emotional-biological crap was anything other than a trite pastime used to distract oneself from truly _thinking._ His lip curled, annoyed. People couldn't be trusted to be alone with themselves. They were children.

(Not John), His mind whispered to him, traitor that it was, (He's different). He huffed under his breath, hit 'send' on a text to Lestrade – and thought about the text he'd sent only an hour ago to John.

He'd half-expected his flatmate to come charging down the stairs, with something to say about all this. Of course he hadn't. Why would he. An experiment, all an experiment. John had said as much – men weren't his area, after all, and who on earth who actually knew him would find _Sherlock Holmes _attractive. He was off-putting as they came, deliberately so. There wasn't enough time in the day to be otherwise. (But sometimes when John had looked at him there had been a spark curiously like hunger, like need and he wanted to cup his hands around it and blow and see what happened to it.)

His legs were dangling off the couch, head lolling to one side, looking at the fire he'd half-heartedly resuscitated from embers. Would John's newly-sparked (New? Or just carefully banked and unexamined?) emotions be like that? Would they smolder, red under dull grey ash until he pressed? Or would they blink out entirely, dragged out into cold relief?

Sherlock groaned under his breath and ran both hands into his hair, throwing the untidy curls into even more disarray.

Likely he was already asleep up there, not spending a single ounce of energy on all this. Mentally lazy, John was. Not as much as everyone else, but still, compared to Sherlock.

Focus. He drew in a deep breath and then let it out slowly, sitting up and rummaging through the piles until he found his stash of nicotine patches, applying two of them. One for John and one for the murderer.

Murder first, he corrected himself immediately, irritated at his own thoughts. And he would _not _apply a third patch, even if John warranted at least two patches, if not three, by himself.

He laid there for some time, not moving a hair, except for his breathing. And then he was jumping up, dragging out his violin case, throwing it open with more force than strictly necessary… and staring down at it. Fingers plucking at the edges of the case, fitfully.

He'd wake John up if he started up now. He was sure of it, the sky wasn't lightening at all, yet. Did it matter? No, but still. He let out a disgusted breath and let it fall shut again. Pulled out his phone and checked.

Nothing. Was it too much to hope for some more evidence? So what if it was already two in the morning? A woman was dead! A vicious killer on the loose!

Sherlock slid the phone back away with a disgusted sigh and took up pacing. Where was he? Oh yes, rebuttal.

Of course, Sherlock would never be satisfied with taking John out for a drink (no, not John, John barely drinks. He doesn't approve) or a movie (dull, dull, and John would never enjoy it when Sherlock gave away the ending within the first five minutes) or a walk in the park (too perilously close to proving John _right _after all, and Sherlock wouldn't do that (last night was too close to it, with that little detour and what had he been thinking when he'd turned left instead of right… or was that right instead of left..))

Focus. Breathe. What sort of date would Sherlock Holmes plan, if were to plan a date?

It couldn't be boring, of course. He refused to be bored (had he been bored with John? No, of course not, but still, the venue left something to be desired). Anything truly _them _had to involve danger and excitement and the thrill of a chase.

Suddenly, Sherlock smiled. What was it called… playing hard to get?

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The first clue would come in the form of a text, during John's lunch break on Friday. Sherlock was watching of course, through the window (there if only John _looked_, which of course he didn't. People never did). HHHe watched John absently fish his cellphone out, reading the text he'd just sent.

_:Come right home. Left clothes and directions for you. Don't dawdle, I'd rather you not be late. SH:_

_:Clothes? Directions? Sherlock, what's wrong with the clothes I have?: _Sherlock could almost hear John's voice (bewildered, exasperated, dear) through the phone and he smiled, slipping the phone away, and headed away from the hospital.

He _did _hope that John kept to the schedule. It would be rather rigorous. He had decided to keep to fast pace instead of a puzzle that required extraordinary amounts of deduction. John was intelligent enough, as they came, but he didn't want to take any undue chances.

Besides, there would be other, more interesting deductions later for Sherlock to draw out of John. Why should John get all the fun?

It had taken the better part of yesterday (after the murder of course, murder always first but the killer was terribly easy to find once he'd interviewed the relevant parties) to plant all the clues for John.

The first would be with Mrs. Hudson. Good to start on home turf, as it were.

His phone buzzed in his pocket again, and he pulled it out as he hailed a cab. Mycroft, being annoying as usual. Why couldn't he commandeer a small city park without his brother getting involved? Honestly.

_:None of your business. Sod off:_

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Fortunately, Sarah had let John skive off a bit early to do – whatever it is that Sherlock had got into his head, this time. John snorted under his breath as he surveyed the three envelopes Mrs. Hudson had been left in the possession of. They were all meticulously labeled, with shortly-written instructions in each. John forwent the shower and changing bit, figuring that he'd do so _after _he ran all around town on Sherlock's crazy wild goose chase.. sighing deeply and getting the first one open.

_Go to Angelo's. Ask him to tell you about the night of the carjacking. SH_

John let out a sigh that he _knew _was the definition of long-suffering, even as Mrs. Hudson tutted and clucked and peeked at the letter over his shoulder. He quickly stuffed it into his pocket.

"I'll be back. To change. Later."

"You'd best, my dear." Mrs. Hudson smiled at him in that way women _did_, that vague and confusing way that made him shift awkwardly.

"Right then." And he nodded to her, awkwardly, slipping out the door and heading for the restaurant.

Angelo was… long-winded and hard to follow. He bounced around in the chronology of his story so much, John _felt _the headache Sherlock must have when he first interviewed the man.

"So there I was," Angelo continued, completely oblivious to John's pained smile, "driving a BMW with an oil leak and sweet and sour pork spilled all over the front seat and egg drop soup soaking my shoes and that's when I thought to myself… I thought 'Angelo, this is a hell of a line of work you're in.'" He slapped his knee, letting out a bellowy laugh that made John start, focus.

"Wait. Egg drop soup?" He rewound the last several moments of the conversation, and then grinned. "Sounds messy." He hurriedly continued, before Angelo could. "By the way. I'm… thinking of doing something nice for Sherlock. You know." He could feel his ears reddening at the sharp, amused grin from the restaurant owner. "Does he have any favorite wine?"

And that was how John found himself loaded down with two bottles of rather expensive wine, with an order into Sherlock's favorite Chinese restaurant.

One down, two to go. The contents of the second envelope were more mystifying than the first. First was a note: "_DI Lestrade. Ask for case solved on Dec 25, 2008. SH_" (SH, as if it were from anyone else.)

There was another envelope inside of it, tightly sealed, with "_Step 2.2. Give to person of interest. Do not peek. SH_" scrawled on the outside.

He'd dutifully gone to the station and found Lestrade, who laughed as soon as John explained (in the briefest terms) his mission. "Oh right. The night he proved himself a right klepto."

"A what?" John asked, tilting his head.

"Made off with a tray of olives my Aunt had brought specially, from the Cyclades. Right after he crashed our Christmas dinner and solved the case."

"Ah.. that's Sherlock for you, I suppose." John said weakly

"No regard for anyone. I'll phone to Sally. She'll help you out." Lestrade said with a curious little smile that John had thought little of.

Not ten minutes later, he was in the records room with Sally (was it supposed to be this easy? Shouldn't police policy require a few more background checks or something?) while she dug a manila folder out of a worn cardboard box. "What's all this about, then?" Sally handed him the case file. Her brow was wrinkled, and she looked tired. John sympathized. He was sure they'd had a few late nights recently.

"Uh.." John took the file, opening it, absently. "Just a bit of a game, of sorts."

"A game? With the freak, you mean?"

"Hn." John bit back the reply, scanning the file. The lead suspect (cleared, thanks to Sherlock) was a violinist. That must be it, right? He pulled out his phone, awkwardly typing in the name to search. Bloody hell he hated phone keyboards. A grin spread across his face as he realized that the violinist was in town – oh. Well that was obvious enough.

"So wait." Sally frowned. "What other steps have there been in this game? Why is he interested in this case?"

"Oh, he's got me running all over, getting things for him. Chinese takeaway. Wine. And olives. And now, a violinist.."

"Olives?"

"Apparently he has a particular fondness…" He looked up, trailing off as he realized Sally was _laughing_ at him. "What?"

"I never thought I'd see the day. The freak trying for _romance_."

"Romance?" He blinked at her.

"Don't you see? It's a couple's scavenger hunt."

His stare must have been sufficiently blank for her to continue, with an ever-widening grin. "You know… Anniversaries and the like? Gettin the spark back?"

The file slipped from his fingers, to the floor, and John _knew _he was staring at her like she'd grown a second head, even as he scrambled to pick it up. ".. I.. wh.. there wasn't a spark to start with."

"Please." She said. "Didn't I tell you before? He doesn't _have _friends. Not that I ever expected him to have a _boyfriend_, but I guess stranger things have happened. Don't know _what _though."

And that, it seemed, was that. Nothing John could say would convince Sally that they weren't a couple. Not that John's arguments held much water. This _was _Sherlock's crazy, ridiculous idea of a date after all (Wait, was _this _the date? Or would that be later? Oh god, if _this_ was the date and Sherlock was planning on just… taking the wine and the takeaway and the olives and absconding to his room, John wasn't sure what he'd do.)

One envelope left.

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Perhaps the park was a bit ham-handed. Sherlock fretted, pacing around the table, wearing a line in the grass, likely. He checked his cell every few moments, lips pressed together.

_Was _the park too much? It wasn't like John appreciated subtlety, not the way Sherlock did, but.

It was then that John rounded the corner of the path, clearing the treeline.

"Excellent, well done, John!" Sherlock couldn't help but exclaim when his flatmate trudged up to the table in the garden, hands laden down with bags. He looked right annoyed – but really, he was five minutes _ahead _of schedule.

"You? Are a spoiled brat." John said as he set the bags down, and he cut a _dashing _figure, in a precisely tailored shirt and trousers. A new jacket, too, so much better than that horrid patchy black thing, though Sherlock was sure that he'd never convince John to part with it. More's the pity.

Sherlock just reached into the bags, greedily pulling out a bottle of the wine, pleased as he read the label. And oh good, John grabbed a corkscrew and glasses and plates too. Ever the planner. He immediately popped the cork.

"Sherlock?" John growled. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Wine?" Sherlock poured, holding the glass out to him. "Come now, John, this is a date. Haven't you enjoyed it so far?"

"So far?" John took the glass and sat down, heavily. "Haring all over the blasted _city_—"

"Oh, look, the entertainment's here." Sherlock cut him off blithely, briefly enjoying briefly, the look of frustration as John looked behind himself. And true, right on schedule, the violinist was walking up, with a portable music stand and violin case.

"He owed me a favor." Sherlock said, gently. Erik had rather specific instructions, himself – an entire set list of songs, both classical and popular that Sherlock had noticed John took interest in. In fact, Sherlock had suggested via email, weeks ago. Not that he was planning anything like _this_, but at the moment, he'd been bored and thought, sometime, it might be… interesting to see how John reacted.

John's eyes met him, startled, but not _quite _understanding. Not yet anyway. Sherlock smiled a bit, to himself. He hoped the gesture would be understood and appreciated for the _brilliant _stroke of forethought and planning that it was. "So. Let's talk about the first part of the date. The wine." He leaned forward, taking the bottle to pour himself a glass. "How _did_ you deduce that?"

"Hunch.Why on earth would you send me to Angelo's, just to send me to get Chinese takeaway" John shrugged, holding out his glass for some more, having taken a large gulp out of frustration. "I just… asked."

"Hunch." Sherlock shuddered at the word. A hunch was not a proper deduction, not a proper one at all. "And the Cycladic olives? Don't you dare use the word hunch. In fact, from this moment on consider it stricken from your vocabulary. For _eternity_, John." Perhaps one couldn't be entirely threatening brandishing a glass of wine at someone

John chuckled, his eyes dancing with mirth and Sherlock found himself momentarily mesmerized. John laughed so full-heartedly. "Sherlock, did you _really_ make off with an entire tray of them at Lestrade's Christmas party?"

Sherlock gathered himself up a bit, but opened the container, setting it down on the table between them. "I don't believe in unnecessarily incriminating myself."

John half-laughed into the wineglass as he took a cautious sip. "I'm sure." He set the glass down. "I guess now I know that Mrs. Hudson hasn't been the one sneaking my biscuits."

"I never eat during cases." Sherlock protested, plastering his best innocent face on. It had only happened once or twice… really.

"Mmhm." It was obvious John didn't believe him, though he was cocking his head to the side, frowning. "This is one of my favorite songs." He murmured, under his breath.

"I know."

Sherlock watched his fingers, so square and strong and comforting, drummed on the stem of the plastic wineglass, then lifted his eyes to take in the redness at John's ears and easy, pleased tilt to his mouth. "And of course the last clue – _one word_, really Sherlock? Meeting?"

Sherlock knew he was smirking, at that. "Took you a bit, mn?"

"A bit. You very nearly didn't get dessert at all." John sounded downright irritable, though his lips were twitching, reassuring Sherlock that he wasn't _too _annoyed. "Really, how you meant me to think to speak to Mike about your first meeting with _him_. Though I did have a good chance to give him a serious talking-to about his issue with fruit tarts."

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his face, smiling. "Well, you've done _quite _well… but what about the dessert wine?"

".. Dessert wine?" John looked up, obviously aghast. "What dessert wine?"

"Perhaps you should revisit the third clue. All of them came in twos, I should have thought you'd notice that. Molly would have been able to tell you." Sherlock smiled at John's obvious discomfiture. "There's _always _something, John." Sherlock couldn't help but smirk as he popped an olive into his mouth. "I'm sure you'll try harder next time."

"Next time?" John's mouth quirked a little in that sweet way.

"Next time." Sherlock said, liking the way the promise felt in his mouth, in his stomach, as he raised his glass to John in a toast.


End file.
